This article is
headed with the same information that was
imprinted on my dog tags. The reason is that by
the time we arrived in Vietnam, we were so
regimented that I had lost any recollection of
having a mind of my own, and if I dared think, I
could expect the CSM to turn on me – his scowl
turning into something resembling a wild animal,
and his roar commencing with the words “Private
f***ing Harrod!” I had even forgotten that my
parents had given me another first name.

We had trained hard since joining 5RAR in May
1968, knowing that our Battalion was going to
Vietnam for its second tour, replacing 1RAR. The
jubilation of being told when leaving
(graduating) from the Infantry Centre at
Ingleburn that we were going to 5RAR, and
receiving the badge of the Royal Australian
Regiment, was only exceeded by boarding buses
and arriving at Tobruk Lines Holsworthy, the
home of the Battalion.

On Monday 3rd February 1969, the main body of
5RAR was bussed to Garden Island, Sydney, for
embarkation onto HMAS Sydney. Most of the
soldiers had family and friends present, but
those from areas farthest from Sydney had no
support. This was probably the loneliest day of
my life – sitting on the lawns of Garden Island,
with very few people to talk to.

Twelve days on board the HMAS Sydney, heading
for Vung Tau Harbour. This was a great trip –
the anticipation of serving Australia, sorting
the bastards out, one can of beer per man per
day (cost 20 cents), the magnificent meals, the
rifle exercises on the flight deck, the ceremony
when we crossed the Equator, the salt tablets,
the Crown and Anchor, learning that “Heads” were
actually toilets, “Goffers” were soft drinks and
“Getters” were thongs. The sailors on the Sydney
were a pretty good bunch, but didn’t have a lot
to do with us. They were doing their jobs.

On the 15th February 1969, we finally arrived in
Vietnam, the “Sydney” anchoring outside Vung Tau
Harbour. We all had stupid cards with a number
stuffed into the front of our slouch hat
puggarees to identify us as we disembarked onto
LCMs. These craft ferried us to shore, and we
were immediately loaded onto Chinooks to be
flown to Nui Dat. I recall that we were yelled
at, covered in dust, had our full packs on,
rifles loaded but in safe mode, and the flight
to Nui Dat was fairly brief.

We had arrived! We were trucked into a rubber
plantation called Ap An Phu close to Luscombe
Field, and the first impressions were those of
extreme humidity and very ordinary-looking four
man tents surrounded by sandbags. We were
ushered into a would-be theatrette with no
walls, told to sit down and shut up by the
ever-friendly CSM. There, the Company Commander
advised us that if we didn’t apply our standards
of training to the now wartime situation, we
would be no more than dead meat.

Our familiarisation was brief: this is your
tent, that building over there is the orderly
room, the other one is the OR Mess, and the last
one is the company boozer – and don’t think that
you will be spending much time in there. There
were also some quaint looking constructions –
some of which were four-berth toilets (four
holes in a solid long plank over a hole of some
metres in depth – no privacy divisions, just
four deep thunderboxes), some four-berth shower
buckets in a sort of a hut – once again, no
privacy, just four suspended canvas buckets
which you filled with cold water, turned
the
shower rose on, got wet, turned the rose off,
soaped yourself over, then turned the rose back
on for a rinse. There were also strange looking
holes in the ground with a 44 gallon drum dug
into them, fly wire over the top, and a sort of
a screen in front. These were called
“pissaphones”, and were for the express use of
urinating into. We found out later that these
were not very pleasant items, particularly when
a digger full of the amber liquid happened to
fall into one. Falling into a pissaphone
immediately cancelled a digger’s right to sleep
in the same tent as his mates for a period of
time. Other constructions included raised
platforms, for the storage of fresh water,
delivery of ice and disposal of any garbage
(individually of course).

We were then shown the picquet posts – one
between 7 and 8 Platoon lines, one at 8 Platoon
and a third at 9 Platoon. At that point,
picquets were appointed, commencing that
evening, and the 1RAR blokes that we were to
replace looked very relieved. The only noise
that was to be heard over the
excitement/enthusiasm of getting set up was the
constant barking of the CSM.

The
next day, in-country training started in
earnest, with a trip to the rifle range just
outside the wire. We were in the war zone, and
intended to make our mark over the next twelve
or so months.

The Company soldiers’ mess was very ordinary.
The cooks worked behind a fly screened area,
with little evidence of even basic hygiene
standards. One example was no running water. The
cookers were called “Choofas” large stainless
steel boxes which were fuelled by kerosene. When
they were lit, or had a fault, they would make a
noise similar to an explosion. The food
produced, was however, quite palatable. Other
“delicacies” were powdered eggs or dehydrated
mashed potato. On the plus side, the American
ketchups and sauces helped to camouflage the
actual tastes. The mess hall comprised long
trestle tables, seating about sixty men per row,
and the room was deliberately kept in
semi-darkness to keep the heat down.

The boozer was a tin hut, fairly well
ventilated, but with no furniture. A bar was
built at one end, and cans of beer or soft
drinks were sold by staff appointed from within
our ranks. Beer was about 15 cents per can, and
cigarettes were the same price per packet. Two
days after our arrival in Vietnam, our only
source of refrigeration or freezing, broke down.
For the next twelve months, we had to beg,
borrow or steal ice, as there was no mechanism
within the Australian Army to provide us with
replacement refrigeration.

Then: to war operations. Vietnam had started for
us, the training cut in, and it was on. Our
Battalion history takes over from here.